


...Then Time Stood Still...

by TheLightFury



Series: The Final Straw [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Cuddling, Depression, Enemies to Friends, Grief/Mourning, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Harry with PTSD from his childhood, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Hurt/Comfort, Just... So much angst, M/M, Men Crying, Mild Language, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Potion Slime, Reference to suicidal thought, crying!harry, graphic description of a panic attack, panicked!draco
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-19 03:58:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19349041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLightFury/pseuds/TheLightFury
Summary: The words died in his throat as the Gryffindor slowly met Draco's eyes. The depth of pain shining through Potter's gaze knocked the breath out of his chest. All traces of happiness had fled, giving his eyes a cold, unearthly edge, as if inhabited by a Dementor. Anguish radiated out from them, like heat from a flame, scorching everything in their sight. There was nothing beneath the pain, no shred of humanity, no form of pleasure; all that was left was a possessed, haunted man.Part Two of my series based on the prompt: Draco Insults Harry who just cries because he's having an awful day. Cue Draco panicking because he hadn't been that mean and now he'd made the Saviour cry!





	...Then Time Stood Still...

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this part was a long time coming! Hope the next one doesn't take so long! But, this covers a panic attack in significant depth, then goes on to reference PTSD like symptoms with a reference to suicidal desire, so please, be careful when you read this! There is just so much angst! But I hope you enjoy it, it's my baby and I am proud of it!
> 
> Thanks to DeWitty1 for reading through this and encouraging me!!! <3

Draco was suffocating; his vault of self-control had been damaged, his meticulously constructed fortress of safety had been breached and now he was left struggling against his emotions. They were flooding through him, roaring in defiance, all because of  _ stupid  _ Potter with his  _ stupid  _ Gryffindor feelings. 

He searched desperately for his control, his inner calm, as he was assaulted. Emotions were merciless, batting away his defenses easily, forcing his heart rate higher. Within seconds, each precious drop of oxygen was ripped from his throat, leaving him gasping as the panic he’d fought against for so long consumed him. 

Oblivious to his turmoil, Potter hiccuped against him. More adrenaline poured into Draco’s bloodstream. The thought of Potter noticing his weakness, his vulnerability and realising how truly  _ pathetic  _ he was, terrified Draco. He couldn’t let Potter see, couldn’t ruin everything he’d worked so hard for, everything he’d achieved this year. He couldn’t - no  _ wouldn’t!  _ betray himself like that. He had to get a grip, find his self-control, mend his defenses!

But his throat continued to close, sweat was settling on his brow, his stomach was churning and his gasps were taking on a high pitched quality, horribly akin to wheezes. Draco could almost hear them echoing in the stone hallway, mixing with Potter’s sobs.

_ Nononononononono _

Panic engulfed his mind; his heart hammered in his chest so hard it could have shaken the whole castle. All sensible thoughts were drowned out by his pitiful, rasping breaths, and his vision began to blur. 

_ Pleasenopleasepleasepleasenoplease... _

His worst nightmares were about to come true; surely he was seconds away from having all hopes of redeeming himself painfully wrenched out of his grasp, damning him to a life of squalor and rejection, of begging and relegation. He shuddered at the thought.

Suddenly the sensation of warmth against his waist broke through the raging tempest of terror. It was so unexpected, so bizarre, so downright odd that for a moment, his body forgot it was trying to kill him.

What the heck was that?! Was it..  _ Fuck _ , had Potter…? 

Almost instantly the anxiety returned in full force, snatching the air from his throat before it even had chance to reach his lungs. He needed to know what Potter was doing, needed to see if he knew that Draco was… Not his usual self... Trying to take a more measured breath (and failing spectacularly), Draco glanced down at the Gryffindor, praying against hope the prat hadn’t noticed his compromised state. 

Against him, Potter had adjusted;  his forehead was now pressed against Draco’s collarbone (as if that could be comfortable), and he’d finally released his desperate grip on Draco’s shirt, choosing to wrap that arm loosely around Draco’s waist instead. He was still sobbing hard, completely engrossed in his misery. Even from a quick look, it was obvious; he hadn’t noticed.

A brief surge of relief rushed over Draco, flooding his lungs with tasting sweet oxygen for a few treasured moments. But not for long. With one anxiety dealt with, the other was free to terrorise him once again. It wasted no time in unleashing its fury once again. 

The sound of his breaths echoing off the walls met him once more. His thoughts, half-formed, confused and incomprehensible, were spinning, zooming wildly through his mind faster than Professional seekers chasing the snitch in the Quidditch World Cup. He couldn’t think, couldn’t remember how to cope. His throat tightened as another gasp ripped from him. 

_ Pleasethinkpleaserememberpleasehelpplease-YES _

As the shudders grew ever more violent, a memory hurtled into Draco’s brain, providing the answer he needed. Not a second too soon.

Like a man clinging onto a precipice for dear life, Draco began moving his thumb slowly, deliberately, backwards and forward against the surface it was resting on. Right then, had no idea what it was, but it didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was focusing all of his attention on trying to breathe in time to the rhythm his thumb was setting. 

Slowly.

Steadily. 

Calmly.

_ In, two, three, four, Hold, two, Out, two, three, four… _

But the panic had other ideas. His lungs burned with the desire, the need, to work faster, breathe harder, gasp and choke. Still, he resisted as well as he could. He knew from experience that although it stung like a bitch now and made him feel like he was dying, the result would be worth it. This would prevent things worse than a panic attack... 

_ In, two, three, four, Hold, two, Out, two, three, four… _

But he couldn’t think about that right now. He wouldn’t feed the panic more kindling to burn himself with. No. He would focus, solely, and completely, on fighting the attack. No matter how difficult, how painful it was _ …  _ It was worth it. Especially in the middle of the corridor, in front of Potter. He needed to win now, more than ever. 

_ In, two, three, four, Hold, two, Out, two, three, four… _

Minutes passed, though he didn’t know how many. Each second he tried to force his breathing, little by little, back under his control, resisting every spasm, every gasp, every undisciplined disgrace to his heritage. 

_ In, two, three, four, Hold, two, Out, two, three, four… _

Slowly, as he battled his every instinct, focusing exclusively on his breathing, the rest of the world fell away. The sensation of Potter against him, the feel of the potion on his skin, and his rapid thoughts all became muffled, as though a heavy woolen blanket had fallen around him, separating him from the world. The only thing that remained was the sound of his distressed breaths, and his consistent chant.

_ In, two, three, four, Hold, two, Out, two, three, four… _

The anxiety battled ferociously, waxing and waning in intensity, threatening to overpower him one moment and reducing the next. He couldn’t count how many times he thought the attack was ending, only to be hit by a fresh wave of terror. 

Gradually, however, it became undeniable that breathing was becoming easier. The panic still ebbed and flowed, but the turning tides were less intense, less overwhelming. Almost imperceptibly at first, his inhales deepened, then the pauses he made sure to take, didn’t suffocate him quite as much, and finally, the exhales weren’t so rapid, so pressured. Still he maintained his steady movements and repeated the chant.

Overtime, little by little, sensations returned, grounding him. The sounds of the hallway flowed gently around him, quietly asking for his attention; the warmth from Potter’s body distracted his senses again, reassuring him that he was still standing, and the smell of the rancid, spoiled potion wafted into his nostrils every so often. 

The worst was over. 

Still he counted every breath.

He'd been in this position many times, the calm after a panic attack, the relief after the storm. Relief was dangerous. It lulled people into a false sense of security before ripping the carpet from beneath them, sending them spiralling back to the pit of despair. Draco knew better than to relax, to acknowledge the relief. He heeded the anxiety that bubbled beneath the deceitful mirage of calm, especially with the current state of his defenses. 

During the panic attack his fortress of safety had been almost entirely obliterated; the old prisons for his feelings, once carefully constructed holding cells, were blasted to hell, no longer fit for purpose. His emotions, now emancipated from their chains, floated freely, like pesky pixies, ready to expose him, ridicule him. Every instinct screamed at him to hide his emotions, to secure them, to protect himself... But his energy reserves were decimated, entirely consumed by the effort it had taken to fight the panic. He was more vulnerable now than at any other time this term; more susceptible to taunts, pranks… 

Guilt. 

Draco swallowed, the very real possibility of someone provoking him, hexing him, or pointing out his Mark weighed upon him. He had no protection, no energy to withstand their insults. 

He was completely defenseless.

He swallowed, nerves threatening to fan into flame in his stomach again. 

_ It will be fine. You just have to get limpet boy off of you, and get back to the dorms. There you can recharge and put all of this ridiculous nonsense beh- _

“Okay class! I think we’ve made excellent progress for the day! Wands down if you please!” Flitwick’s voice squeaked down the corridor. 

_ Shit. _

*

The knowledge that lessons were almost over should have shaken him from his emotions, should have given him the strength to pull away from Malfoy, to mutter an apology, to pretend to be okay. 

But it didn't. 

He just couldn’t find it in him to care; with every slow heartbeat, pain bled through him. Like poison, it immobilised him, so although he was no longer crying, there was also no relief. His emotions continually waged war. The grief, just as visceral, just as rampant, clawed at him, desperate to draw him deeper into despair.

It was winning. 

*

He was done for. 

He knew it; it was inevitable. Any moment now the halls would be flooded with students; students that would gawp, point, assume. Students that may be able to tell how unhinged Draco really was at this moment in time. Students that would jump to the wrong conclusions. Students who would hound him mercilessly until he was forced to flee Hogwarts forever with no chance at redeeming himself ever in the future... 

He had to leave. Had to move. Had to hide if he was to have any chance of surviving the rest of the year. But Potter. Wouldn’t.  _ Move! _

He’d tried everything; he’d whispered in the git’s ear, tapped him on the shoulder, spoken at a normal volume, changed his tone of voice… He’d even taken a small step back at one point, trying to jerk Potter into the present! But still, The Boy Who Lived had become ‘The Boy Who Cuddled’, head still resting firmly on Draco’s shoulder, arm wrapped around his waist, giving no indication that he’d heard Draco whatsoever . 

_ ‘What the fuck’s wrong with him?’  _ Draco wondered, not for the first time that day.

“ _ And for your homework..."  _ Flitwick’s squeak floated down the corridor before Draco could contemplate the answer.  

_ Circe’s arse! _

“C'mon Potter! We should go. Do you want everyone to laugh at you?” Draco hissed, eyes darting around, trying to guess which direction students would come from first. 

As usual, The Boy Who Lived didn’t respond. The sounds of rustling in the classrooms around him grew in volume, sending Draco’s heart rate ever higher. 

“Potter, we need to leave.  _ NOW! _ Lesson’s are about to end, and whilst you apparently don’t care if everyone stares at you and ridicules you for the next century,  _ I do!!! _ ”  

The man against him barely even sniffed. The band around Draco’s chest squeezed tighter as his ears strained, convinced that he could hear chairs scraping across the floor; the symphony of his downfall. 

_ Fucking Potter!!!! _

*

At any other time, Malfoy’s panicked tone would have been annoying, the cowardly prince showing his true disgusting colours. But now, Harry barely had the energy to huff a small sigh. 

He just didn’t care anymore. His throat ached from crying, his head felt like it was going to explode, his entire body felt sticky with tears, sweat, and potion, and his mind was a haze of darkness and pain. Concentrating hurt. Standing hurt. The idea of moving hurt.  _ Everything  _ hurt. He couldn’t give a flying fuck what anyone thought about him anymore. 

The Slytherin’s knee was jigging ever so slightly, sending tremors up Harry’s leg, and he could hear the man’s shaky inhales. Still, the anguish held Harry fast, wounded, drained, and just done. The petty urge to bury his head further into Malfoy’s collar tugged at him as Flitwick asked for 8 inches on alternatives to  _ Wingardium Leviosa  _ and when they were most appropriate. 

Between the whispers of activity around them and the screams of pain raging in his head, he almost missed it. It was soft, barely audible; a breathy exhale that, if there was any voice behind, would have been suspiciously similar to a whimper. But it was enough. 

“Potter,  _ please.”  _

Draco’s quiet plead resonated deep inside of him, relentlessly shaking his very core until it ignited something, something Harry truly hated sometimes. Everyone said it was an asset to his character; something enviable, an inspiration and example for others. But right now, it felt like anything but. He’d saved the entire Wizarding World for Merlin’s sake, why couldn’t he just put himself first just  _ once? _

From a dark, forgotten, yet powerful part of his being, a sense of duty was trickling through his veins, dampening the power of the dark that had ravaged him for the last hour or so. It urged him to stand upright, be ready to move, hide, and run if needed with each of the Slytherin’s quivering breaths. 

_ ‘Just like old times.’  _ Harry grimaced.

He barely had the energy to stand, but it didn’t matter. As long as there was someone to protect, some wrong to right, he was powerless to resist. 

He sighed to himself as Malfoy grew ever more restless; why did he have to be such a Gryffindor?

*

Draco’s skin was crawling, adrenaline pumping furiously around his body. Every sense was on high alert, magnifying every sound, every whisper of movement; he shivered at every rustle and murmur, the urge to run and leave the idiot that was Potter behind mounting to almost unbearable levels. Of their own accord, his muscles tensed, preparing to spring into action, shove Potter away, flee like the coward he was. 

Suddenly, the warmth and stickiness he’d become so accustomed to started peeling away.

_ Wait, what? Was he… Really? _

Potter was letting him go! Untangling his arms, pulling away and supporting his own weight, sniffling miserably.

_ Praise Salazar! _

Hope and relief thundered through Draco as the Saviour swayed and clean air rushed to greet Draco where the Gryffindork had been. But as chairs in Flitwick’s classroom began scraping across the floor, all thoughts of celebration fled from Draco’s mind. 

_ Fuck! _

Grabbing the Gryffindor’s thin wrist with a quickly hissed ‘C’mon’, Draco started pulling him in the direction of the common room as fast as he could. 

As the noise level increased around them, Draco drove forward, steps matching the fast rhythm of his heartbeat. They just had to get back to the common room…

*

It was like his arm was being wrenched from its socket. Without a second’s warning, Harry found himself lurching forward, legs still rooted to the spot, as Malfoy tried to drag him away. Just as he was convinced he would fall flat onto the stone floor, his legs jerked into a slow, unsteady motion, stumbling along beside the Slytherin who seemed determined to frog march him through the castle. 

Every instinct screamed to be left alone as they whirled through hallways; Malfoy yanked him along in a not-quite-run down hall after hall, barely leaving him time to breathe. The urge, the  _ need  _ to collapse, to just drown in the pain was almost overwhelming. Grief still slashed unforgivingly in his chest, making every moment he had to focus on moving, on turning around corners, on keeping up with Malfoy’s long strides almost unbearable. Still he staggered on, the sounds of the castle coming to life muffled by the noise of his own ragged breaths. 

Why couldn’t he just fade away?

*

_ Shitshitshit _

The sound of students flooding out into the corridors was everywhere. They were coming from every direction, every angle, and it was suffocating. Each footstep, each laugh, each swish of robes was amplified tenfold by Draco’s tortured senses. As they neared the heart of  the castle the truth became undeniable; there was no way they would make it back to the common room without being seen. The sounds of students approaching from all sides grew, trapping them, like Occamys in a nest.

_ Ballsshitbuggerfuck. _

They needed to find a place to hide. Still powering forwards, he jerked the ungainly lump that was Potter around a corner as he changed direction, searching for an escape. 

_ Bloody buggering shit! Why in Merlin’s name do you always get mixed up with Saint Fucking Potter?! He’s nothing but fucking trouble, you should have learned by now you stupid, idiotic, worthlesss- _

“OI!” Someone yelled from behind them. Draco froze mid-rant, his blood turning to ice. A second later, something collided with him, sending him stumbling across the hallway. 

Regaining his balance, he whirled on the spot, wand poised, barely breathing- 

Only to find the Boy Wonder, swaying slightly. 

There was no one behind him. No one else in the hallway. The git had crashed into him.

_ Fucking idiot. _

“Dammit Potter, watch where you’re going!” He hissed as putting his wand away. 

“M’sorry.” The berk muttered, but Draco wasn’t paying attention. The marching of students was spurring him on, urging him to find a hiding place. Yanking Potter forward once again, he searched for an escape.

Within a few seconds, a small cleaning cupboard caught his eye. The thought of being trapped against dusty brushes in close quarters with Potter again was anything but appealing, but with the shouts of raucous students screaming in his ears, and the hammering of his heart in his chest, he had no choice. Wrenching the door open, he shoved Potter inside, scrambling in after him and slamming the door shut just as the first students lumbered into the corridor.

Darkness enveloped them, trying to cloak them in relief. They’d made it. They hadn’t been seen. He was safe from the threat of expulsion for now... But with each laugh, each heavy footstep of the students on the other side of the thin wood, Draco flinched, heart jumping wildly in his throat. With each shadow that slipped through the cracks in the walls, his stomach churned violently, preparing for their presence to be detected. 

*

A sudden pain flared in Harry’s shoulder, and a few seconds later, everything went dark. Before he could get his bearings, there was a loud slam and the sound of someone panting near him. 

The familiar smell of a musty, cramped room invaded his senses as the cacophonous symphony of pupils reached its crusciendo, the first students walking past their hiding place. 

A cupboard. They were in a cupboard. 

_ Oh… Great... _

The dust swirled around them, resettling after the disturbance their sudden entrance caused. With every breath, the filthy particles raced to fly down his throat, trying to choke him as they invaded his lungs. A few ragged coughs leapt out of his throat. He hadn’t missed this.

Yet as the dust fell, memories began to bubble up; memories about all the times he’d slept on a floor exactly like the one he was stood on. About the spiders he’d roomed with. The hunger and pain of spending every minute from seven o’clock Friday night until four, five, six o’clock the following day locked in there, unable to go to the toilet, forbidden to eat anything until the Dursley’s got back from their trip. The loneliness.

In an instant, a new tirade of emotions were yelling at him, crushing his chest with the overwhelming fear that nothing would get better, there was no escape, and he would be forever alone. Unloved. 

He tried to panic, tried to cry, tried to force his body to move out of the prison, away from the constant reminders of his childhood, but it was impossible. He was frozen, ensnared by his memories and emotions, caught in a mute, unbearable vortex of pain. 

The rest of the world carried on, completely oblivious.

*

He stared at the sliver of hallway, pulse still pounding in his ears. The flow of students had reduced to a sporadic trickle, and somehow, no one had discovered them. The last footsteps of the final few pupils out of lessons slapped loudly on the stone, as if scurrying to avoid punishment for being late. A few murmurs of rushed conversations before lessons resumed floated down the hallways, and doors to classrooms swished, squeaked, and slammed shut all over the castle. A few seconds later, a tentative quiet had blanketed the castle once more.

Draco paused, still poised at the door. They’d been too close to getting caught before, he wasn’t going to take any chances. Still, as time ticked on and nothing stirred, he finally allowed his eyes to slip closed, resting his forehead on the musty wood, too relieved to care. Now if he could only stop his heart from jumping out of his chest...

Almost unconsciously, he found himself repeating his mantra once again, soothing his tortured nerves as the silence around them morphed into something familiar; reassuring. It enticed him back to the present gently, promising relief from the stress of the last few hours. 

He didn’t trust it.

Still, Draco opened his eyes anyway, quickly casting a Lumos to survey his disgusting surroundings. The cleaning cupboard was exactly what he’d expected; small, covered in dust and cobwebs, with one lone, battered and neglected broom in the back right-hand corner. He and Potter were stood directly in the middle, merely inches away from each other, and able to touch both sides of the wooden frame just by stretching out their elbows. It was definitely too small to be comfortable. 

His eyes fell on the Gryffindor again. It was unsurprising really, given the close quarters, but for the first time since he’d burst into tears, Draco really looked at the man in front of him. Potter’s face was blotchy and puffy from crying, streaked with tears and potion. His hair, always a disaster, looked like it had been dragged through a bush and shat on by a flock of Fwoopers, and even now, he had a slight indent from the crease of Draco’s shirt. 

Instinctively, almost like a reflex, Draco found the urge to laugh, to taunt, to ridicule the fallen Saviour, stirring within. He looked completely ridiculous, pathetic even, and his former self would have leapt at the chance to make the Saint’s life even worse. But there was more, hiding beneath the stains the potion had left. 

Beneath the red flush of emotion, Potter’s skin was sallow, gaunt and grey. His whole frame was thinner, as though he hadn’t eaten properly in months, and his whole demeanor seemed… defeated... Far more so than if he was just having a bad day. 

Potter looked like he was in hell. 

A weird emotion threatened to invade Draco’s chest as he surveyed the Chosen One. Something kind, understanding, sympathetic even… It twisted uncomfortably in his stomach, urging him to act, to speak, to just do  _ something  _ to alleviate the feeling. It just wasn’t  _ natural _ . 

“Potter,” he cleared his throat, trying to appear as normal as possible, “as much as this is a thrilling afternoon we’re having, I’d quite like to return to the dorms now and have a hot shower. I’ve had quite enough of wandering around as the poster boy for one of Peeve’s pranks.” 

The man didn’t respond. An uncomfortable silence stretched between them; Draco fought the urge to jig his knee.

“Potter, do you want to-”

The words died in his throat as the Gryffindor slowly met Draco's eyes. The depth of pain shining through Potter's gaze knocked the breath out of his chest. All traces of happiness had fled, giving his eyes a cold, unearthly edge, as if inhabited by a Dementor. Anguish radiated out from them, like heat from a flame, scorching everything in their sight. There was nothing beneath the pain, no shred of humanity, no form of pleasure; all that was left was a possessed, haunted man.  

For a few moments, time stood still as Draco drowned, unable to breathe in the sea of sadness he'd been unceremoniously plunged into. It physically hurt just to look at Potter, so wounded, so vulnerable, so  _ pained _ . The man was a shell, a mere shadow of the Saviour that had defeated the Dark Lord just a few months ago. The emotion that had ghosted through Draco’s chest before, tentative and fragile, fanned into a burning flame, threatening every notion he had about The Boy Who Lived in one fell swoop. 

_ What happened to him? _

Any final fragments of instinct to taunt Potter, to continue their rivalry, fled in an instant, replaced almost immediately by an almost overpowering urge to tell the man in front of him that everything would be okay. 

But he couldn't. 

For once, words failed him, pulled away in the turbulent undertow of torment in Potter’s eyes. There was nothing he could say, no words he could utter that would ease the pain that tortured the Gryffindor. 

But the need remained; he had to do something more than stare at his broken old nemesis in a dismal cupboard forever. 

With a shaky inhale, he reached for Potter again, gently taking his sticky hand in his own. The Gryffindor flinched ever so slightly. He paused, giving the man time to adjust whilst listening for any indication that they would be discovered in the hallway. When none came, he carefully opened the door, squinting as light flooded the small space, leading out a mute but obedient Potter. 

Without a word, they began walking, Potter still meandering slightly, as if too wearied by his demons to support his own weight properly. Draco pretended not to notice when the twerp bumped into him, merely guiding him quietly in a more appropriate direction. 

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Please come and say hi on Tumblr! @april-thelightfury115 :D


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